


The Case of the Antique Crown

by SlowMercury



Category: The Death of the Necromancer - Martha Wells
Genre: Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Madeline has an archnemesis, Magic Technobabble, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlowMercury/pseuds/SlowMercury
Summary: Arisilde has a suspicious client and enlists assistance from his friends.





	The Case of the Antique Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mairelon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mairelon/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, mairelon! I hope this is suits what you were looking for, this was my best attempt at case fic.

“She’s awful,” Madeline said.  She and Nicholas were sitting in front of the breakfast table at Coldcourt.  A fire blazed merrily a few feet away in the hearth, but Coldcourt continued to live up to its name and so she was bundled into a heavy wrap; Nicholas had a woolen cap on.

Madeline had returned from rehearsal very late last night because the director refused to let anyone leave until he was satisfied with the betrayal scene.  She and Nic hadn’t had the chance to catch up yet.

“I hate Guinevere von Weiss and almost everything about her,” Madeline continued.  “She’s petty, spiteful and vain, and her jewelry is gauche.  If Guin hadn’t kept throwing temper tantrums, we all could have been home by eleven.”

 “Well, what are you going to do about it?” Nicholas asked, setting his coffee down.

“If she did anything to spoil an actual performance obviously I would ruin her,” Madeline said.  “She won’t, though.  Guin’s a nightmare, but she’s also a top-notch actress.  She never accepts anything less than the best from herself or anyone else.  Our run of _Alianora and the Stolen Harp_ is going to be legendary.”  Madeline paused to sip her coffee smugly.  “In the meantime,” she added, “I am practicing being extremely kind and courteous with everyone, especially Guin, in order to make my co-star look worse by comparison.  I am making excellent progress.”  Nic’s lips twitched slightly into a conspiratorial smirk.

There was a polite knock, then a footman came in with a letter.  Nic slit it open with a butter knife.

“It’s from Arisilde,” Nic said.  “He wants us to stop by.”

 

Philosopher’s Cross was just starting to stir in the late morning chill; merchants were opening up their stores and street stalls, crying out the virtues of their wares.  The smell of baking cinnamon bread wafted out of a nearby patisserie enticingly enough that if they hadn’t just finished breakfast Nicholas would have been tempted to eat again. 

Arisilde’s new flat was located a few blocks away from his old one.  It was in all ways an improvement, and not simply because the old one was still being rebuilt after its destruction by Constant Macob.  The concierge here was attentive and far less prone to letting non-residents slip into his building unnoticed, the stairwell was well lit, and the facility as a whole was ruthlessly clean.  Nicholas and Madeline climbed to the third floor and then had no trouble whatsoever in finding Arisilde’s door, which was always a good sign. 

Nicholas was cautiously starting to hope that Arisilde might live long enough to die from some cause other than his addictions.  Something about finally getting their revenge on Count Rive Montesq, or perhaps something about meeting the challenge of Macob’s vile necromancy, had helped Arisilde settle a little more firmly back in reality.  He still had bad days – days when he couldn’t keep the present separate from his memories of the past, days when he dosed on enough laudanum to drown in – but now Arisilde’s good days outnumbered the bad ones.

Isham was out of town visiting family, so Arisilde let them into his flat himself.  Even with his manservant absent, Arisilde’s eyes were clear and steady, and his clothes and hair were neat and clean.

“Hello,” Arisilde said.  “It’s lovely to see you, you both look very well.”

“Thank you, Ari,” Madeline said.  “You’re looking well today, too.” 

“How is business treating you these days?” Arisilde asked them. 

Nicholas was unsure which business Arisilde was referring to, it could be any number of things, but since he was technically retired from being a criminal mastermind, Nicholas gamely chose to interpret it as an inquiry about his profession as an art dealer.  He discussed a number of successful deals he had recently brokered, and some emerging artists he was sponsoring.  Then it was Madeline’s turn; she complained again about her coworker Guinevere von Weiss, and then began a detailed dissection of how the various themes of _Alianora and the Stolen Harp_ were reflected in the costumes and lighting.  Throughout the whole conversation, Arisilde asked engaging questions which displayed his interest in their lives.  It gave Nicholas a feeling of almost tangible warmth to know Arisilde cared enough about him and Madeline that their passions were important to Arisilde, too.  It also warmed Nicholas when he considered how Ari’s questions demonstrated the ability to stay securely focused on the present.

“…so the gaudier the costume the Harp wears at the beginning, the better it matches the feeling of overdone opulence and shallow materialism,” Madeline finished.  “By the end, the Harp has a much more subdued outfit with simpler, classier colors and jewelry, corresponding with Alianora’s character growth.  It’s perhaps a bit trite, but our costume department is so good it feels like a fresh idea again.”

“Fascinating,” Arisilde nodded, eyes bright.  “I am very much looking forward to your performance.”  Arisilde grinned like an urchin, and Madeline grinned back.  Even Nic couldn’t help a slight smile.

“Not that it hasn’t been delightful catching up,” Nicholas said eventually, “but was that the reason you asked us here?”

“Oh, no,” Arisilde said.  “Or, only partly.  I was waiting for the other guests to get here before I started in on all of that.”

With suspiciously good timing, there was a rap on the door to the flat.  But then, Arisilde was often a bit uncanny like that.

“This is them now,” Arisilde said.  “Don’t get up, we’ll be right back.”  He vanished towards the door.

He returned with Inspector Sebastion Ronsarde and Doctor Cyran Halle. 

The sheer unexpectedness of it froze Nicholas in place for a heartbeat.  It seemed Madeline had no such trouble, because she was already greeting the pair with affectionate busses on the cheek.  After a brief internal debate, Nicholas rose to offer them a handshake.

Dr. Halle did not appear to have changed since the last time Nicholas had seen him, over a year ago; his hair was perhaps a bit grayer, but overall he seemed as hale as ever.  Ronsarde, on the other hand, looked both better and worse than last time: he was no longer battered and bruised, as he had been in the wake of their confrontation with Macob, but he seemed to have aged significantly in the past year.  Although he still moved with spry energy, Ronsarde gave the impression of frailty now.

“Hello, my boy,” Ronsarde said merrily.  “How wonderful to see you again!  How have you been?”

He did not, Nicholas noted wryly, ask _what_ Nicholas had been up to.  It was just as well; although Nic had lasted longer at the University of Adera’s medical school than the week that Madeline had predicted, it had not been by much and not all of Nicholas’s ensuing diversions had been entirely legal.

“Very well, Inspector,” Nicholas said.  “Yourself?”

Ronsarde’s response was interrupted when Halle turned away from Madeline to greet Nicholas as well.  “Valiarde,” Halle said.  “That was a nasty trick you played on Sebastion.”  In spite of his words, Halle’s tone conveyed hilarity.  “It’s too bad you missed seeing everyone’s faces, it was highly amusing.”

Nicholas grinned in response.  “I’ll bet,” he agreed, rather than admit that he did know.  Madeline snickered beside him, and Ronsarde smiled ruefully, shaking his head.  Well.  At least Inspector Ronsarde didn’t seem to be holding a grudge.  That could have been very inconvenient.

 

Arisilde got them all settled in his drawing room, now much more crowded.  He wasted no time in raising the topic of why he had invited everyone over.

“I got a somewhat alarming request, so I thought I should let you all know,” Arisilde explained.  “Early this morning, a man came to the flat and asked me to craft him an etherial string disruptor and a harmonic mirror resonator.  It wouldn’t have been anything of note, you know, except it occurred to me that some of the cornerstone anchors of the palace wards have a repeating pattern.  With what he asked for from me and perhaps two or three other tools, it might be possible to create small, temporary holes in the wards.”

A brief, horrified silence met this pronouncement before the apartment erupted into noise.

“Are there any other possible uses for these items?” asked Ronsarde.

“How big would these temporary ward holes be, and how often?” Madeline asked.

“What did you tell your client?” asked Nicholas.

Arisilde blinked at the sudden onslaught of questions, looking faintly bewildered, but his eyes didn’t lose focus and he didn’t grip at his shirtsleeves or the armrest of his chair, so Nicholas thought they probably hadn’t pushed too hard and thrown him into a fit.  Yet.

Madeline was better at eliciting and then interpreting information from Ari than Nicholas, so he sat back and let her take charge.  To his faint surprise, so did Ronsarde.  Halle, of course, followed their leads.

The picture that developed was concerning but not yet cause for panic.  Arisilde’s potential client had stopped by first thing that morning, before Ari was awake.  Arisilde’s personal wards had rung loudly enough to arouse him from bed, letting him know of a possible sale.

“I promised Isham I would try to look after myself,” Arisilde said, terribly earnest.  “He wouldn’t have gone to see his sister, otherwise.  So I have to talk to everyone who might want to buy a spell or a crafting from me, unless my wards say their intentions are blatantly malicious.”

The customer had introduced himself as Victor Mercier, an obvious pseudonym taken from a famous Parscian treatise on trade tariffs.  Ari did not recall any of the man’s physical traits, but claimed he would nonetheless be able to identify the alleged Victor Mercier by the feel of Mercier’s magic.  Although Arisilde had not seen Mercier work any magic in front of him, Arisilde said that Mercier had a minor talent for illusion spells and a weaker knack for fire magic.

Mercier had asked Arisilde for an etherial disruptor and a mirror resonator.  Either item, on its own, was innocuous; they were useful in a variety of scrying spells and luck charms.  It was only when the two were taken together that they began to look suspicious, because the two spell components could be combined to map and breach wards.  The specific types Mercier requested – the etherial string disruptor and the harmonic mirror resonator – were optimized to tackle ward systems with a central keystone and several minor anchoring points; the most prominent example of that sort of ward system in the city was the palace wards. 

The wards breach would take the form of circular holes approximately a foot and a half wide in the latticework of the wards system, appearing every three days at the very edge of the ward structure.  It would be far easier to remove objects from inside the wards than to bring outside objects into the wards system, but it would not be impossible.

These intimate details about the palace wards were not common knowledge.  Arisilde knew because, once the Queen had disposed of her court sorcerer Rahene Fallier, her majesty had offered Arisilde the position.  Arisilde turned her down, but he did agree to update the palace wards and add his own magic to the palace’s protection.  Arisilde’s involvement had been kept quiet, so Mercier was unlikely to be aware that Arisilde was familiar with the palace wards system.

Arisilde told Mercier that he would consider taking the job, and that Mercier should return in three days for Arisilde’s answer.  There were few other sorcerers for hire with the skill to fulfill Mercier’s commission, so it was very likely Mercier would return.  If he didn’t, Arisilde could still find him.

 

By the time Madeline’s gentle questioning of Arisilde finished, Ari was visibly exhausted but they had a number of leads to investigate.  Madeline went to the kitchen to brew Arisilde a cup of tea; by the time she returned with it, Ronsarde and Nicholas were dividing up tasks.

“My contacts are a bit out of date,” Nicholas was admitting.  “Nevertheless, I have several people I can inquire with to see if they’ve heard any word on possible jobs at the palace.”

“I’ll ask on the Prefecture side, see if I can find out who would know all this about the palace wards system,” Ronsarde replied.  “We can reconvene here tomorrow.”

“That is,” Halle interjected, “if that’s all right with you, Arisilde.”  Arisilde waved a hand carelessly in response, and it was decided.  Halle and Ronsarde left shortly after that, bickering quietly.

“They’ve been very kind to me,” Arisilde remarked.  “They visited me often, you know, while you two were away.  Sometimes they brought me work, and I know Isham asked Dr. Halle for help once or twice when my health turned bad.”

“No,” Nicholas said softly.  “I didn’t know that, Ari.  I’m glad.”

Arisilde needed all the friends and support he could get, Madeline knew.  Nic knew that too, but it was nice to hear him say so.  They had done their best, but there was only so much they could do once they were out of the country.  Letters were no substitute for being there.  It was comforting to know that Arisilde hadn’t been alone but for Isham while they were away.

After they made their goodbyes and headed for the street, Madeline couldn’t help but smile.  “Arisilde really does think you work for the Prefecture alongside Inspector Ronsarde, doesn’t he,” she said.  “He’s not even wrong, this time.”

Nic glared in response, which made her laugh.

 

The whole group reconvened at sundown the following day.  Madeline was a last minute addition; general rehearsal for _Alianora_ was canceled because Guinevere von Weiss demanded one on one time with the director and the entire pit orchestra.

Oddly, several of the best leads came from Ronsarde’s criminal contacts – Cusard and Lamane’s network of street children and petty thieves reported to Ronsarde these days, after Nicholas had fled the country.  Ronsarde had not been able to ask his legal informants for help; the Prefecture had forbidden it.  The Prefecture refused to authorize any investigation into a potential wards breach at the palace based on this unstated but implied logic: the palace wards were so strong and effective that they could be beaten perhaps once in a century, and since they’d been broken the previous year it was extremely unlikely that it would happen again so soon.

In contrast, Nicholas had been unable to wrest much information from the criminal underground, because most of his previous contacts thought he was dead and he had to start from scratch with new personas.  However, Nicholas’ art dealer acquaintances had been very informative.  He had heard plenty about a mysterious sudden glut of antiques dating back to the reign of King Rogere.  Many predated even that. 

From all the leads everyone had uncovered, there was only one that both Ronsarde and Nicholas’ contacts agreed on: a warehouse near the harbor full of goods bound for Parscia rented in Victor Mercier’s name.  If there was evidence to be found, it would be here. 

Nicholas looked the building over carefully.  There were no visible guards, and the few windows were all above the second story.  There was no visible door either, but Arisilde had mentioned that Mercier had a talent for illusions.  Nicholas ran his eyes over the warehouse again and this time he noticed a discrepancy in its appearance.  There were buttresses evenly spaced along the walls, except for the far corner, which had two crowded closer together.  He stared at it until a door faded into existence between them.

“Arisilde, would you mind checking for wards or traps?” Nicholas asked.

Ari didn’t reply, but he did wander vaguely towards the door.  Arisilde placed his hand on it, then commented, “That was a nasty one.”

“Is it a ward?” Madeline prompted.

“Yes.  It’s designed so that if someone without a key goes inside their heart stops.  Quite illegal.”

“I believe that gives us probable cause to suspect further illegal activities,” Ronsarde said.  “Let’s go in.” 

Ronsarde said that, Nicholas noted irritably, as if they _wouldn’t_ have gone in if they hadn’t found something wrong from the outside.  It probably would make it easier for Ronsarde to explain to his superiors, though.

Ronsarde produced a set of lockpicks and set to work.  Nicholas closed his eyes in disgust, then gently took the lockpicks and nudged the inspector to stand by Dr. Halle.  Fortunately, it was a simple lock and the door opened in minutes.

Inside the warehouse, an unnatural chill rose and their breath clouded in the air.  This type of cold spell was actually common in warehouses to help preserve meats, fish and other perishable goods before shipping, but this temperature was unusually low even for that purpose.  Perhaps, Nicholas speculated, Mercier intended to discourage customs officials and the like from lingering too long.

Arisilde tossed up a silver witchlight which cast flickering shadows.  Racks of butchered cows hung in rows, forming a cramped, claustrophobic space to walk between the carcasses.  In spite of the cold, the smell of uncured meat clogged Nicholas’ throat until he gagged.  Everyone pulled out their handkerchiefs and Madeline dabbed perfume on them from a bottle she’d kept in her purse.  Holding the improvised masks up to their faces made breathing possible.

“You do take me to the most fascinating places, my boy,” Ronsarde said to Nicholas.

“I do not,” Nic snapped, obscurely nettled.  “You take yourself.  I only took you to prison, everywhere else we went was your own fault.”  Well, and once Ronsarde had been kidnapped.

“He’s got a point there,” Halle said.  “And more than just bringing yourself, you usually bring me, too.”

In front of them, Arisilde drifted along the rows, headed to the back of the warehouse.  About a third of the way there, he stopped and started mumbling to himself while pacing back and forth between the hanging racks of beef.  For a moment, Nicholas worried Ari was having an episode, but then Arisilde said, “There,” in tones of clear satisfaction and a layer of illusion peeled away.

At first, Nicholas could not spot a difference.  Then he noticed that the corridor between the beef carcasses was slightly wider and the cows were slightly larger than those in the rest of the warehouse. 

Halle cleared his throat.  “Something about the shape of this row of beef isn’t right.  The bodies are…” he struggled for a word.  “The bodies are subtly off.”

Ronsarde and Nicholas nodded slowly.

“That’s because they’re not real cows,” Arisilde said brightly.  “They’re artificial flesh golems.  For storage.”

“What does that mean?” Madeline asked.

“Look,” Ari said.  He reached out to touch one of the carcasses and it opened up as if it had hinges, like a gruesome parody of a music box.  A smaller chest was sealed within the flesh golem, and it fell to the floor with a bang.

Nicholas stepped forward cautiously to open this new package.  Inside was an ancient rolled up tapestry in terrible condition that Nic’s first casual glance nevertheless appraised at a value that would feed an entire working class family for several months, which was wrapped around a set of tarnished silver candlesticks from at least three hundred years ago, and a dusty crown.  The crown was over a foot tall, encrusted with sapphires the size of a baby’s fist, had diamonds studded everywhere else there was space and was gilded heavily.  Even without the grime, it would have been remarkably ugly.

“That,” Madeline said as they all stared at the contents of the chest in stupefaction, “has got to be the crown called Rogere’s Folly.  I’d heard it was lost during the last big war with the fey.”

“It was,” Nicholas agreed.  “No one has seen it since.”

“I will bet,” Ronsarde said, “that it used to be in one of the palace wings that was closed off after the war, until someone went exploring and found it.  I will bet that someone smuggled it out through a hole in the wards and was preparing to ship it off to sell in Parscia.”

“I’d say,” Nicholas said, “that you’ve got enough here to convince the Prefecture of the danger to the palace wards.”

 

Further investigations revealed that Victor Mercier was the alias of the Queen’s third cousin Gabriel Archambeault, a man who was neither as clever as he thought he was nor as rich as he thought he should be.  His first solution to these problems had been to court the Queen’s hand in marriage; when she’d have none of him, he had turned to more creative alternatives.  It had been easy for the Parscian ambassador to convince him that opening the wards to sell off forgotten goods from the collapsed parts of the palace was a harmless, profitable pursuit.

Archambeault had apparently not realized that it being difficult to send things through the holes in the palace wards was not the same as it being impossible – the Parscian ambassador had had plans for these security gaps, which astonished Archambeault but surprised absolutely no one else.  Neither had Archambeault thought about whether forgotten junk from closed off parts of the palace might be dangerous, any more than he had considered that weakening the ward system was simply a bad idea in general. 

The Queen was reportedly _very displeased_ with her cousin.  She was holding him in prison while she made up her mind whether to execute him for treason or have him exiled for stupidity.

In the meantime, the Queen summoned everyone who had assisted in solving the matter to a private audience. 

It was in the same vast chamber where Nicholas had first met the Queen, the high arch of the ceilings and giant gold lanterns softened by enormous piles of carpets and wall tapestries.  The Queen sat in the same armchair near the hearth and might even have been wearing the same old-fashioned lace cap as before.  Her dress was different, a rich wine-red color, although still very sober in cut, and she was embroidering a pillow.  The Queen had arranged chairs for all her guests in a loose circle, as if everyone had simply met by chance at a gentlemen’s club rather than by the express command of her majesty.  She resembled a child playing dress-up more than a reigning monarch, if Nicholas completely disregarded every instinct telling him that the Queen was observing them intently for all that she didn’t look up from her needlepoint.

“My lady,” Inspector Ronsarde gave the Queen a bow and the less formal address which signified his close ties to their ruler; he was echoed a beat later by Dr. Halle.  Nicholas and Madeline murmured “Your majesty,” while bowing and curtseying respectively, but surprisingly Arisilde also called the Queen “my lady,” bobbing up and down in a motion that could have been mistaken for a stumble.

“Do that,” the Queen ordered, eyes flickering to and then away from Nicholas and Madeline in order to indicate who she was talking to.

“Your majesty?” Nicholas asked, baffled.  Did she mean for him and Madeline to copy Arisilde’s attempt at obeisance? 

“No,” said the Queen.

After a moment’s frantic thought, Nicholas offered a tentative, “My lady?”  The Queen nodded, then gazed limpidly at Madeline until she too offered the more informal address.

“Good,” said the Queen.  Her eyes flashed around the gathering, then she waved at the chairs provided.  Nicholas took this to mean that they should sit.  Everyone did so and the Queen didn’t object, so it was probably all right.

“Are you sure you won’t be my court sorcerer?” the Queen asked Arisilde.  “Cousin Gabriel is frightfully idiotic, and that can be difficult to predict, but he still should have been stopped before all this commotion.”

“No, my lady,” Arisilde said, softly.  “I’m not… suited for it.”  The Queen regarded him, then reached out to pat his hand comfortingly. 

“Thank you anyway,” she said.  “I truly appreciate all your efforts.”  This last comment seemed to be aimed at all her guests.

A servant brought out a tea set and silently poured it.  Nicholas recognized the flavor as a very expensive Parscian import, and wondered if this was some sort of obscure statement.  They sipped and it was delicious.

“I sent cognac to your flats as thanks,” the Queen told Ronsarde and Halle.  They murmured their gratitude.  “But,” the Queen continued, “cognac didn’t seem right for you two.”  She darted another glance at Nicholas and Madeline.  “Is there anything you do want?” she asked.  Like so much about the Queen, it was both a sincere question and a test.

“No, my lady,” Nicholas said.  “So long as you continue to not tell Aunt Celile that you know where I live.”  The Queen inclined her head, and Nicholas felt a flash of relief.

“Hm,” said Madeline.  She eyed the Queen as carefully as the Queen had been examining them.  When the Queen did not visibly take offense, Nicholas was able to breathe again.

“Yes,” Madeline said.  “There is something I want.  May I borrow Rogere’s Folly?  It would be for just a few months, and then we’d return it.”

The Queen looked surprised, then doubtful.  “The Folly is an historic relic, even if it is hideous,” the Queen pointed out.  “I could loan you a less garish, more valuable crown if you’d like. It can even be one that isn't a century out of fashion.”

“Thank you, but no,” Madeline said.  “I promise I’d look after it as befits its historic value.  Its monetary value, too.  If anyone steals it, I’ll make Nic steal it back.  It will give him something to do.”  Nicholas stiffened in outrage but kept silent; whatever Madeline was plotting, whatever was worth the risk of provoking the Queen like this, he didn’t want to ruin it.

The Queen considered this.  “But what do you want it for?” she asked.

“I’m in the upcoming production of _Alianora and the Stolen Harp_ ,” Madeline explained, “and we haven’t been able to find the Harp a decent crown for the first act, or at least not one that you can see from the cheap seats.  The Folly is certainly big enough and shiny enough for that.” 

The Queen blinked in surprise. 

“It should be perfectly safe,” Madeline continued. “Rogere’s Folly is so ornate that no one will believe it’s real.  And I’ll give you theater tickets for a private box for the season.”

The Queen smiled.  “Done,” she said.


End file.
